<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Hold Me Tight by shireisnotonfire</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174982">Hold Me Tight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireisnotonfire/pseuds/shireisnotonfire'>shireisnotonfire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1960s, 1960s Music, Blizzards &amp; Snowstorms, Christmas Fluff, Cold Weather, Early Beatles, Fluff and Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mild Language, References to Illness, Sick Character, Sick George Harrison, Sickfic, Snow Day, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:35:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174982</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireisnotonfire/pseuds/shireisnotonfire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During one of the final tours in Hamburg, The Beatles are stuck inside their secluded cottage due to an unexpected snowstorm. The blizzard roaring outside their doors is ceaseless, their hopes of being rescued slowly decline with each and every day that passes. When George's sickness grows worse, fear and tension rises between the group. </p><p>The boys are beginning to panic. Yet out of the group, it is John Lennon that seems the most collected and calm about the situation (much to Paul's surprise). Finally, John has the time to catch his breath and reflect on himself, the band, and most importantly-- his partnership with Paul. With all of this time on their hands, will John be able to confess what he truly feels about his partner in crime? </p><p>This story contains a lot of cute warmy, fuzzy fluff. Lots of cuddles, lots of snuggles, lots of music, and a whole lot of lovey-dovey feelings emerge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Blanket Burrito</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    The pale moonlight trickled from the window, bringing Paul out from his sleep. He fluttered his eyes, a bit of crust flaking off of his eyelashes. It was six in the morning when Paul stumbled out of his sleep. In his mind, he hadn’t slept a blink; but fortunately, Prellies would do just the trick. With a mighty yawn, his hands extended into the air. His fingers played in the moonlight, the beam of light intertwining in his fingers. Brinks of sunlight loomed overhead. </p><p>    Paul despised mornings. </p><p>    Delicately, he rose up from the bed. The crisp air burned against his skin, his hair raising up. It was a fresh, early start for Paul to begin his day. The boys had yet another concert that night in Hamburg. The cottage they rented was a half-hour’s distance from the club, meaning that they had to get up early for practice. With a hesitant grunt, he shoved the blankets aside.</p><p>    As Paul moved, he elbowed someone beside him. </p><p>    “What the-! aslkjsdf!”</p><p>    Instinctively, Paul panicked. He jolted away and faced the person. The person beside him was huddled in a mountain of blankets, not a face in sight. Their whole body was wrapped in blankets, like a blanket burrito of some sorts. Paul sat there, puzzled. For the life of him, Paul couldn’t recall sleeping with anyone last night.</p><p><em>     In fact, I’m sure I didn’t! </em> Paul’s ears still rang from the late night at the pub, but he was sober for the entire night (sober enough, at least, to recall the concert). And it wasn’t normal for Paul to sleep with strangers, especially during a tour. <em> Surely </em>if he had met a hooker he would have remembered. </p><p>    Paul chuckled to himself. <em> Maybe she was so ugly that I forced myself to forget? </em></p><p>    The air was frigid, a frosty bite hung in the air. As Paul placed his naked feet on the floor, he shivered. His toes clenched together and he rubbed his feet together for warmth. He wished he had worn socks. As he stood, the blanket around him slipped. Paul looked down.</p><p><em>     God, </em> he thought to himself, seeing that he was stark naked, <em> maybe I did shag someone last night! </em></p><p>    Paul quickly gathered the blanket around his waist. Very delicately, Paul leaned towards the huddled, mysterious figure in his bed. </p><p>    Not quite sure what to say, Paul awkwardly murmured, “Hi there.”</p><p>    The blanket burrito didn’t move.</p><p>    Paul stammered, “We didn’t happen to… y’know, sleep together last night, did we?”</p><p>
  <em>     Silence.  </em>
</p><p>    Paul grew worried. With a gentle caress, he patted along the person’s body (as if that would give him any clue). His hands slowly made their way up the person’s legs, waist, and stomach. As he reached the person’s chest, he realized that it certainly wasn’t a woman. </p><p>    “John?”</p><p>    A heavy snore came from the blanket burrito. Nope, it couldn’t be. Normally John was a light sleeper. </p><p>    Paul raised an eyebrow. Delicately, his hands slowly began to unveil the mysterious sleeper. The unveiling revealed a large head of curled, dark brown hair. </p><p>    “George…?”</p><p>    With a painful whine, the blanket burrito began to unfold. Sticking his head out of the peephole was George. His face was red, burning, and indented by the blankets around him. Squinting his eyes open, George glanced towards Paul. In a grumbling whisper, George muttered, “Why do you think John would have slept with y’last night?”</p><p>    Paul blushed, but shouted back in self-defense, “Oi, why are you in my bed, mate?”</p><p>    George didn’t reply to this. Closing his eyes once more, he began to slowly retreat back into his humble abode. </p><p>    “Hey, I’m talking to yous!” Cross, Paul shook the blanket burrito. There was a distressed whimper from within the layers.</p><p>    George moaned, “What is it now?”</p><p>    “What the feck are you in my bed?”</p><p>    George’s eyes fluttered open. As he did, it was very clear to Paul that George was ill. His cheeks were red, his nose stuffed, and his eyes watery. George complained about being unwell the first night of the tour. During the concert last night, he grumbled about running a fever, feeling faint and very drowsy. None of the other bandmates took it fairly seriously, except for Ringo who insisted that he ought to see a doctor. And as for Paul, he just supposed that it was hay fever. </p><p>    Apparently not. </p><p>    George’s eyes wandered downward. With a smirk on his face, George asked plainly, “Why do you sleep naked, Paul?” </p><p>    Paul looked down. The blanket had slipped. </p><p>    Completely. </p><p>    “Because it’s my fecking bed?” scoffed Paul, very slowly reaching down to the blanket. Keeping a cool physique, Paul readjusting the blanket around his waist. Despite trying to remain calm and collected, his face was red from embarrassment. He folded his arms and interrogated, “I thought yous was bunking with Ringo.”</p><p>    George shook his head and corrected him, “Well I <em>w</em><em>as </em>sharing a bed with John. Until I started spewing me guts out.”</p><p>    “He kicked you out of bed?”</p><p>    George nodded. For a moment, he scrunched up his nose. In a fast jolt, George coughed downward. Bits of spit and snot flew everywhere. He shivered, chattering his teeth. </p><p>    Paul grimaced. Turning away, he muttered, “Thanks for getting me sick, George. Really appreciate that.”</p><p>    “What does it matter?” asked George, burrowing himself deeper into the blanket burrito, “We’ll be stuck out here for days.”</p><p>    “What d’you mean by that, George?”</p><p>    “Take a look outside, will ya?” </p><p>    It was then that Paul listened closely to the wind outside. It roared heavily, the air whistling through the window crack. It was no wonder why it was so cold in his bedroom. Paul was surprised he didn’t hear it before. He parted the curtains and took a look outside.</p><p>    Nothing. Quite truly, as Paul looked outside, there was nothing to see. It was pure white outside. Paul squinted his eyes. And he thought John was the one with shitty eyesight! </p><p>     It became clear that a snowstorm was brewing outside the window, blurring out everything in sight. Paul never saw anything like it, especially because Liverpool was too close to the sea to have a good snowfall. The wind continued to press against the window harshly, the panels creaking out in pain. Ice cemented itself onto the window panels, snow building up against it. It seemed as though the entire world had been hit by a new Ice Age, collapsing onto their secluded cottage. </p><p>     A voice echoed from the hallway, “Shit!”</p><p>    It was John. Immediately, Paul ran from the bedroom, following John’s voice as he continued to shout, “You have <em> gotta be </em> kidding me! For feck’s sake!”</p><p>    Reaching the end of the hallway, Paul saw John hunched over the dining room table. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket, as well. His hands were frantically spinning the phone dial. Once dialing, he shouted into the phone, “Der Operator! Der Operator! Verbinde mich mit dem Fairmont Hotel!”</p><p>     John’s German was far from perfect, but it was passable. </p><p>    The air was silent. There wasn’t an answer from the other line. Furious, John slammed the phone onto the switchhook. He hit his fist against the wall.</p><p>    From the otherside of the cottage, somewhere between the entryway and kitchen, came Ringo’s voice, “John, quit it already. You’re going to wake George up. Or worse, Paul.”</p><p>    That was when Paul interrupted, “Bit too late for that, I’m afraid.”</p><p>    At the sound of Paul’s voice, John abruptly turned around. He straightened his posture and cleared his voice. His face quickly switched. From what began as scrunched up anger became a soft smile. John asked, “Macca, have you seen the weather outside?”</p><p>    “Yeah, it’s shit alright.” Paul walked towards John, fixing his hair into place. When in front of John, he nodded towards the window, “Suppose our gig is cancelled tonight?”</p><p>    In a matter-of-fact tone, John muttered, “At this rate, our whole tour is cancelled.”</p><p>    “Ye whot?” </p><p>    “Phone lines are dead,” explained John, leaning a bit against the table. His eyes cascaded down Paul’s body. Paul noticed it, a smirk growing on his face. Almost immediately, John averted his eyes. Glancing elsewhere, John continued, “I can’t get to an operator, police, anything. Let alone Brian.”</p><p>    The boys had six more shows in Hamburg, each of them consecutive. There wasn’t time to sit around and wait out for a snowstorm to die off! Paul threw his hands down. </p><p>    Becoming cross, Paul scowled. He exclaimed, “Then what are we supposed to do?” </p><p>    Ringo shortly emerged from the kitchen. He wore a large, long shirt that hung low to his knees. In his hands were three mugs, one at his left and two balanced in his right. Each mug had tea fixed in it, exactly as each boy liked it. The third was for George. </p><p>    With a gentle shrug, Ringo said, “I suppose we’ll just stay here until the phone works again. Unless any yous fancy a twenty mile walk.”</p><p>    “G’wed, Ringo. I don’t think this storm’ll lighten up for a while,” uttered Paul, facing towards the window. John turned towards the window as well and sighed heavily.</p><p>     “I reckon,” John said, “If the weather keeps up like this, the phone lines won’t work for a few days.”</p><p>    Paul glanced over to John. John’s face was content, his eyes settled on the snow. There was even a smile on his face! Paul was a bit shocked. How was John <em> not </em> panicking over this? The Beatles rarely, if ever, cancelled a gig. And for the very few times they did, John was the first to protest against it. To John, cancelling a gig was a major loss in reputation. It didn’t matter if it was storming or one of the members was sick. ‘ <em> The show goes on whether any yous live or die </em>’ John often said. </p><p>    Yet nothing on John’s face revealed any anger and discontent. His face was pleasant, happy almost, as he gazed out into the blizzard.</p><p>    Reaching Paul and John, Ringo began to hand out the cuppas. The lightest tea, swirling of warm milk and sugar, was handed to Paul. The darker tea, a bit too bitter for Ringo’s taste, was handed to John. Ringo asked, “Do you the police will come rescue us by then?”</p><p>    John muttered, “We’re thirty minutes out from Hamburg in the middle of a snowstorm. I’m thinking that the fans have a better chance of finding us than the bizzies.” </p><p>    The boys laughed together. At last, with George’s cup at hand, Ringo nodded to the others, “Right. I’ll check on George.”</p><p>    With a sharp turn, Ringo made his way down the hall and into the small bedroom. With a quick turn, Ringo was out of sight. Once putting his mug down, John fumbled in his pockets. He pulled out a cigarette and with his lighter, he lit it. His eyes still rested onto the skies. </p><p>    “You don’t seem so broken up over this,” muttered Paul, then taking a sip of his tea. It was perfect. Out of every person in the World, only his dad and Ringo knew how to make Paul’s tea to perfection. Licking his lips, he savored the taste. </p><p>    “Brian knows where we are. Once it gets safe to drive, I’m sure he’ll pick us up. Anyhow, I think a few days off will be good for us.”</p><p>    “For us?” Paul glanced over to John, whose eyes were still fixated on the outdoors. There was a gentle flutter in Paul’s chest, as he anxiously waited for John’s explanation. Paul questioned, a gentle blush over his face, “Whose us?”</p><p>    Yet John remained silent, inhaling on his ciggie. </p><p>    Paul continued to press him, “Do you mean the whole band?”</p><p>    John was silent still. </p><p>    Rather irritated, Paul protested, “Aren’t you the one whose always obsessed with maintaining nonstop publicity? Aren’t you the one who’d rather shoot himself than take a holiday?” </p><p>    Paul watched as John glanced down for a moment, only to grab his mug. He glanced up once more and sipped on his tea. </p><p>    “Johnny,” interrogated Paul, his voice heightening in anger, “George is sick, Ringo doesn’t have his drums, and our week-long tour might be cancelled. How on Earth is this good for anyone?”</p><p>    At last, John sighed heavily. He glanced over to Paul, fluttering his lashes just a bit. A rosey blush swirled on John’s cheeks. He spoke softly, “I think this will be good for <em> us. </em>You and I.” </p><p>     John’s eyes glanced up, checking for Ringo. Yet seeing that the hallway was empty, he moved closer to Paul. With a gentle touch, John’s hand grazed across Paul’s waist. Paul jolted back. Yet very sweetly, John wrapped around Paul, enveloping him in a warm embrace. John chuckled lowly. </p><p>     John leaned in towards Paul’s ear. With a bit of a nervous laugh, he whispered delicately, “I can’t recall a time in recent that we’ve had a real conversation. And I mean a <em> real </em>conversation, none of this bullshit about frivolous lyrics and girls.”</p><p>    Paul hadn’t a clue what was happening until fully embraced in John’s arms. With his head resting onto John’s shoulder, Paul looked at him in amazement. His arms wrapped around John’s waist, ever-so-gently. His breathing grew heavy as he said, “I’d like that very much, Johnny.”</p><p>    The two remained in that embrace for what seemed an hour long. Paul inhaled. There was a sweet scent to John, especially in the morning. The tea breath made the scent even more alluring. It was John’s morning hair that Paul loved the most, when it was shaggy and fuzzy on the ends. It was rare to catch him without his hair done, so Paul treasured the moment.  Gradually, as they held each other, John’s hand slowly gazed up Paul’s back. As his hand reached his neck, Paul let out a soft giggle. </p><p>    Both men blushed. <em> I never knew Paulie was ticklish there, </em>though John to himself, a meek smile swirling onto his face. He would have to save that trick for later.</p><p>    Inch by inch, John’s hand moved its way up until reaching the top of his head. John’s finger then swirled around his hair. He took a clump of it and clutched it, a bit rougher than he had intended. With a gentle push, John moved Paul in front him. Their eyes locked. John’s eyes were the first to glance downward, his pupils fixated on Paul’s lips. </p><p>    John smirked and leaned in.</p><p>    “Uh, guys?”</p><p>     Like thin air, Ringo appeared next to them. </p><p>     In a swift and sudden motion, John thrusted Paul away from him. Paul stumbled back, but caught himself on the table. After double checking to make sure Paul was okay, John turned around. Ringo stood beside them with his head tilted.  <em> How long had he been there?!  </em></p><p>    With a cheeky smirk, Ringo asked, “Was I interrupting something?”</p><p>    “Oi, Ringo,” hollered John, crossing his arms, “Mind to do something for me, mate?”</p><p>    “What?”</p><p>     “Fuck off,” John snarled, with a sharp smirk, “Cheers mate, that’d be class.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Great Pillow Tyrant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Now they sat in what was once Paul’s room, hushed and huddled together. The laughter was gone, the world outside was frigid, and the boys were sipping on their eighth cup of tea. Snow bellowed from the Germany countryside in a horizontal blur. Snowflakes of infinite varieties piled upon one another, covering every crook and cranny as far as the eye could see.</p><p>    There were very few things to be grateful for. First and foremost, the house was warm. John counted themselves lucky that he had insisted on buying firewood the day before. With what John had bought, the boys had enough logs to last them a week.</p><p>    But when it came to food, it was scarce (Scarce, at least, for four hungry boys). The previous tenants had left two pounds of flour, a dozen potatoes, tea, a carton of milk, half a bag of cornmeal, canned black pudding, and a shit-ton of beans. The only additional things that the boys brought were liquor, honey, and bread. It was very obvious that Brian didn’t have a say in their shopping list.</p><p>    The night was coming to its conclusion. While John and Paul sat at the end of George’s bed, playing cards and exchanging jokes, Ringo was rushing in and out of the room in a frenzy. He had taken upon himself to make sure George was well fed and comfortable. None of them were quite sure why Ringo was so passionate about caring for George, but since Ringo seemed to know what he was doing, none of them bothered to say a word.</p><p>    As the sun began to wane, Paul stretched his arms out, yawning a bit. John smiled, remarking, “Tired there, Paul-love?”</p><p>    “Of course not,” Paul shrugged, “What’s there to be tired from?”</p><p>    Promptly, Paul began to rise from the bed. He turned towards the drawers, where he had previously unpacked his clothes. Paul grabbed his pajamas, which were really just an old shirt of his Dad’s and sweatpants. John’s eyes followed him. John began to stare when Paul took off his shirt.</p><p>    “John?”</p><p>    As he began to unbuckle his pants, John’s heart skipped a beat.</p><p>    “John?”</p><p>    John’s mouth was gaped open. Suddenly, something began to kick at John.</p><p>    Abruptly, John was brought into reality. He spun around to find George, sitting at the head of the bed, hollering at him, “John!”</p><p>    With his face blushed red, John began to stutter for a moment, “Y-yeah, George?”</p><p>    George crossed his arms for a moment, a smirk emerging on his face. He repeated himself, “I asked if it was okay if Paul stayed in your room tonight.”</p><p>    John was quick to nod, but he was interrupted by Paul.</p><p>    “I would have asked Ringo to share a bed,” remarked Paul, slipping into his sweatpants. John’s smile slightly faded at the sound of that. Paul turned to face them and chuckled, “But we gave Ringo the kid’s room, remember?”</p><p>   John remarked, “He’s the only one that could fit in that bed, the poor bastard.”</p><p>    At the sound of his name, Ringo appeared in the doorway. In his hands was a cool, damp cloth and a steaming cup of earl gray. With a bit of a defeated sigh, Ringo said, “It’s not easy being short, y’know.”</p><p>    Very gently, Ringo approached George’s side. Just as a mother would, Ringo tended to him right away. He smiled at his patient George, while placing the damp cloth over his forehead. Ringo spoke, proceeding to hand him his earl gray, “A touch of honey to help with your throat.”</p><p>    George took the mug and gave Ringo a weak smile, “Thanks, mate. I owe you.”</p><p>    Ringo soothed him, “Just take it easy, George-dearie.” Very gently, Ringo adjusted the cloth on his forehead. He placed it right where George’s fever was hottest. He ran his fingers through his hair and gave a happy grin. George took a sip, a gentle smile growing on his face. He sighed in satisfaction, smacking his lips a bit.</p><p>    “Sorry,” hollered Paul, with his hands against his hips, “Am I interrupting something?”</p><p>    John and Paul laughed, to which George took it upon himself to flip them off.</p><p>    “Oi now,” teased John, a smirk crawling across his face, “Is the little one gettin’ snarky with us?” Bearing his grin, John reached over and rustled George’s hair. George responded by coughing straight at John’s face.</p><p>    John jumped back, yelling at George, “You son of a bitch!”    As a mischievous snarl grew on his face, John’s hands began to search for any weapon to use against George. There really wasn’t much to fight George with, except for his fists, which he vowed to never use again. Finding a pillow, John proceeded to hit George with it.</p><p>    When seeing John hit George with a pillow, Ringo desperately tried to intervene, only for John to hit him with the pillow as well.</p><p>    Once John was distracted, George seized another pillow, coughed into it, and slammed it over John’s head.</p><p>    A childish, yet quite violent, pillow fight erupted. Ringo and George joined forces to take down the Great Pillow Tyrant. For a moment, Paul watched as his bandmates began to declare war against one another. John elbowed Paul, insisting, “C’mon, be a dear. Join my alliance and together, we shall rule Britannia!”</p><p>    But rather than join in or break it up, Paul saw his way out of the room. He left a bit abruptly, hopping off the bed and rushing down the hall within seconds. John’s smile faded as he saw Paul leave his side.</p><p>    Thoughts began to consume Paul’s mind; he needed time to think things out. Once reaching the kitchen, Paul began to pour himself hard cider. He perched himself on the kitchen counter, letting his feet dangle off the edge as he drank himself into blurriness.</p><p>    For the entire day, he couldn’t help but think about what had happened that morning. How close he and John had gotten… what was that all about, anyhow? There was a mixture of emotions that lurked under Paul’s impression of that moment. Paul couldn’t help but fluster when thinking about that moment, being tightly embraced by his dearest friend. Paul crossed his legs, chuckling to himself a bit while trying to conceal his excitement. He couldn’t get that hug out of his head.</p><p>    “You alright there, Paul?”</p><p>    Paul was quickly shaken from his daydreams with the sound of Ringo’s voice. Standing at the kitchen entrance was Ringo, holding an empty mug. Very cautiously, Ringo approached and began to explain himself, “Johnny spilt George’s tea, I was just grabbing him another brew.”</p><p>    With a defeated sigh, Ringo softly chuckled and continued to say, “I don’t know how you’ve dealt with him for so many years.”</p><p>    Paul muttered, “Lennon’s always a pain in my arse, hadi’t he?”</p><p>    With a snarky grin, Ringo winked and joked, “In more ways that one. Right, Paul?”</p><p>    Paul’s face flushed. He couldn’t believe what Ringo had said! Paul stammered, “Ye whot?”</p><p>    Ringo spoke once more, a bit more clearly, “I said, ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one.’”</p><p>    At this point, Paul’s face went bright as a tomato. Apparently, he was drunk enough to mishear Ringo. Quickly, Paul glanced away and put his cider to the side.</p><p>    Tilting his head, Ringo asked Paul for clarification, “...What did you think I said?”</p><p>    Left with no way to defend himself, Paul didn’t respond. Ringo shrugged, approaching the kitchen drawers to prepare another tea for George.</p><p>    Embarrassed, Paul cautiously got off the countertop and made his way out of the kitchen. As he approached the end of the hall, there were two bedrooms: one was George’s and the other was the room that Paul would share with John. Before entering into his new room, Paul overheard John’s voice coming from George’s room, “Jesus. You’re stiff as hell, George.”</p><p>    Paul turned quicker than he had ever done before. His heart was thumping, almost audibly. Thoughts frantically scattered in his mind. In a swift and passionate swivel, he glanced into George’s room, frightened of what he might see.</p><p>    George was shirtless, sitting up, and hunched over. Kneeling behind him was John, whose hands were around his shoulders. For a split second, Paul thought he had seen something straight out of a porno film. Yet blinking a few times, he noticed John’s soothing hands running down his back. John’s fingers kneaded George’s muscles, giving him a heavenly backrub.</p><p>    With a sigh of relief, Paul watched for a moment. As John rubbed his back, he must’ve hit a tough spot for George. George groaned, whining a bit, “God, not too hard, John.”</p><p>    John didn’t pay much attention to George’s pleas. He continued to massage him, his fingers continuing to press down his back. In that moment, Paul envied George more than he had ever before. John never had offered Paul a backrub or even a comforting word when he was sick.</p><p>   <em> Why couldn’t I be the one that’s sick?</em> thought Paul. He continued to stare as John massaged George’s back. A gentle chuckle came from under Paul’s breath. Quickly, John turned around to find Paul staring at him. John raised an eyebrow and asked, "You been there the whole time, Paulie?"</p><p>     As quickly as he came, Paul quickly vanished from John's sight and rushed into the bedroom. He buried his hands in his face, blushing red in embarrasment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dyslexia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>/this chapter includes angst and minor violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    The door left ajar creaked loudly as John entered his silent bedroom. Light trickled from the hallway and onto the bed. The bed was not pushed into a corner, but rather centralized with an elegant chestnut headboard. The comforter was a billowing cloud, light and irresistibly soft. John squinted his eyes to find Paul enveloped in the comforter’s whisps. A gentle snuffle came from Paul’s mouth. John smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Reverently tip-toeing to the side of the bed, he delicately pulled the sheets back. Relieved to be off of his feet, John toppled onto the mattress. He sighed heavily, sinking into the plushness surrounding him. To his left was a lamp. Knowing very well that he wasn’t going to sleep, John flickered on the lamp. He leaned towards the nightstand, where there sat a copy of Ray Bradbury’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fahrenheit 451. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He grabbed the book along with his glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Thumbing through the pages, which were worn and stained in coffee, John Lennon read. He squinted his eyes as the b’s became d’s and the z’s became s’s. As for the word “which”, he couldn’t understand why Ray Bradbury used the word “witch” all of the time. Dyslexia was a pain in the ass. From a very young age, John Lennon knew he was dyslexic (although not knowing the term until he was nearly 16). The humiliation of reading aloud and his scolding teachers made John hate school more and more. John always assumed there was something wrong with himself, intellectually. His teacher reinforced that lie, telling him that he would go nowhere in life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Yet now, magazines across Europe hailed The Beatles to be the largest thing since Elvis. He didn’t need perfect reading to clearly see his picture on The Daily Mail. John couldn’t help but grin, thinking about what it must be like for his primary teachers to see his name, face, and snarky grin  in the papers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John chuckled to himself and outstretched his arm. That is where his arm bumped into Paul. He glanced down to find his partner-in-crime, fast asleep. The pale moonlight and the lamp’s light shone brilliantly on his sleeping face. There had been a lot of shitty things in John’s life, far worse than his dyslexia problems. But the best moment in his life, despite the countless struggles, was the day that he fell in love with Paul McCartney-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>6 July 1957. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    John softly ruffled his hair, grinning. He paused to look at him for a moment, then carried on again with reading. As he read, John stroked Paul’s hair gently. After a few minutes of stroking, a broken voice muttered, “John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    At the sound of his name, John turned around and found Paul staring up at him. His hazel, puppy-dog eyes melted everything that was frozen in John’s heart. Quickly, John removed his hand. Paul began to rub his eyes, yawning a quiet but mighty yawn. His eyelashes fluttered. A content smile grew on his face as he said, “Fancy seeing you here, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Fancy yourself,” smirked John, placing his book down, “Ringo told me you was drinkin. Shoulda’had me join.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “No way,” scoffed Paul, his word still slurring a bit, “You get pissed when yous drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A bit offended, John retorted, “I do not!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul blankly stared at him. Paul didn’t have to remind him that on Paul’s 21st birthday, John had nearly killed someone out of drunken rage. Paul raised an eyebrow and waited for John to recall that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John remembered and began to stutter, “I- I mean, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Mhmmm…” responded Paul, a smirk curled on his face. John rolled his eyes, playful shoving Paul away. John crossed his arms, only for Paul to lean in over his shoulder. He teasingly asked, “You know, you never told me what happened between you and Brian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Nothing happened,” John spat back, shoving Paul away with a bit more force, “God, why does everyone think something happened between him and I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Plus,” justified John, “If something did happen, you’d be the first to know about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul blushed a little, asking John, “W-why would I be the first to know about it, John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Because…” John was at a loss of words. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why did I even say that in the first place?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Because...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John continued to stammer a bit, his words were tongue-tied and his face was blushed red. Coming up with the most reasonable answer, John eventually said, “Because if I was shagging our manager, it’d probably be best to tell my partner, wouldn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As soon as the word “partner” slipped from John’s mouth, he instantly and desperately tried to retract his words. His face became even redder and hotter by the second. Nervously, John drew his hands to his face, glancing away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul raised an eyebrow, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Partner?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Uh, I meant songwriting partner.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Sure you did, Johnny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shut up, Macca.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This time, John elbowed Paul a bit rougher. Paul winced a bit, but still refused to give up the teasing., “Do you have something you’d like to admit, Lennon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With a booming voice, John shouted, “God no!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul hadn’t expected such an astounding “no”. The smile from Paul’s face slipped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Bitterly, John muttered, “Do you have anything you wish to admit, McCartney?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul paused for a moment. He opened his mouth to say the truth, but partially hurt by John’s answer, he responded quietly, “No. No I don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Brilliant.” With that being said, John grabbed onto the blankets and rolled away from Paul, bringing most of the covers with him. Paul was left with nothing but a thin sheet. He shivered in the cold and still looked towards John. With a quiet and sad sigh, Paul turned the opposite way. Paul meekly tried to grab some of the blankets, only for John’s hand to slap him away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul closed his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was I expecting? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thought to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>was I expecting for him to tell me the truth about Brian? To explain what “partner” meant? To confess his love for me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paul wasn’t sure what to expect, but he desired for John to at least say something true. It was evident that John was hiding something, much like Paul was hiding things, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul fluttered his eyes open. He slowly turned around to find John, facing towards him. Paul tilted his head, “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What was you doing outside of George’s room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I…” Paul didn’t hesitate in answering truthfully, “Yous were making weird noises in his room. I was just checking…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “To make sure we weren’t shagging?” A grin spread across John’s face and he said, “Relax. The last person you have to worry about me shagging is George.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Both men laughed, Paul’s face gently blushing. Discreetly, John rose up from his spot and pushed the blankets back over to Paul’s side. He delicately draped it over his body, looking down at Paul with reassured happiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Hmm?” John placed his hands on Paul’s waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul glanced up, “Can I ask you for a favor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John was quick to reply, “Of course. You know I’d do anything for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, I--” As Paul tried to explain his request, his face got all red again. He stammered, “I… like, well… You remember how you were with George?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Yes,” John said, matter-of-fact, “I can remember where I was 30 minutes ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul chuckled and shook his head, “W-what I meant to say was… God, this feels so weird to ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well…” Paul glanced away for a moment, trying to recollect his words. Paul’s current drunkenness certainly did not help in this matter. As he thought, vivid memories flooded his mind, “When I was younger, whenever I was sick… Which, well, wasn’t very often, but when I was, I was violently ill. Ended up in the hospital a few times because I would get dehydrated, which was really strange b--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A bit annoyed by Paul’s tangent, John interrupted, “What did you need, Macca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Right…” Paul came back to his original request,“When I was sick, my mum would always give me backrubs. I dunno, it always was so--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Roll over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul tilted his head, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Before Paul knew it, John rolled him over onto his stomach. The brunt force nearly knocked the wind out of Paul’s lungs. John leaned over him, his strong hands wrapping around Paul’s shoulders. He began to massage him, much harder than Paul had imagined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul winced, tightening his shoulders up to his neck, “God, George was right. You’re going too hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John frowned, but listened to him. His hands began to work softer, delicately massaging Paul’s heavy and sore shoulders. After the first few rubs, Paul sighed in relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John continued to massage Paul, finding great pleasure in it all. He began to lean over Paul more, naturally mounting him to get the best position. Once a few minutes had passed, Paul was slowly becoming unresponsive. John slowed down the massaging, only to hear Paul snore lightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A smile grew on John’s face. He let go of Paul’s shoulders, his hands delicately brushing down his back. There was something about Paul being asleep that was irresistibly cute. Very slowly, John began to unmount Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A quiet whisper emerged, “Wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John stopped, glancing down to find Paul stirring from his sleep. With John still on top of him, Paul rolled over to his back. His sleepy and drunken eyes looked up at John, a gentle smirk crawled on his face. His hand slowly reached down and grabbed a hold of John’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     John’s heart fluttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Aren’t you forgetting something, Lennon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John stammered, his face blushed. Yet, he was left without a proper response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     “C’mon, John-love,” Before John could prepare for it, Paul’s hands grasped onto John’s thighs around him. Paul continued to grin, “I know you’ve been wanting to for a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>     John felt his body grow more and more excited. He was almost unable to control himself. Not even in his wildest dreams would this have happened. There Paul was: underneath him and looking at his dreamily, just wishing to be shagged. In a matter of seconds, John was ready to rip his clothes off. Yet, John glanced over towards the door. A sudden fear came over him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>What if the others heard?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “W-well…” John stammered, “I m-mean… w-what are you exactly meaning, Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Isn’t it obvious?” Paul responded, “You’ve been dying to kiss me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “...Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Apparently, Paul didn’t have the same thoughtline as John. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though John, realizing he had misread the entire situation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He isn’t wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As much as John’s hopes were high, this other alternative wasn’t too bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Oh?” scoffed Paul, his hands still resting on John’s thighs. Paul raised an eyebrow, “You do want to kiss me, right? I could tell this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    God, Paul is dead on. Was it that obvious? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I…” Within a matter of minutes, John went from being annoyed by Paul, to wanting to shag him, and to now desiring to kiss him. All of this began to overwhelm John. Despite every desire to passionately kiss him, fear took over him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What if this is all some joke? </span>
  </em>
  <span>The very </span>
  <em>
    <span>last </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing that John needed was unreciprocated love, especially from his best friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John shook his head. Afraid of rejection, John gave a blunt response, “You’re drunk, Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul was quick to reply, “I’m not drunk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You’re going to regret this…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>drunk!” shouted Paul. He chuckled a bit, “John, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one whose mounting me! All I’m doing is giving you permission to do exactly what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I said no!” A bit frustrated, John quickly got off of Paul. He muttered, “As I said, you’re drunk. You’d regret this in the morning. I’m only looking out for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul rolled his eyes. He muttered, “Alright then, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Alright what, Macca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “If you’re going to be so shy about it, I’ll just do it myself.” Before John could comprehend it, Paul leaned over him. There wasn’t a moment for John to squirm away. Taking a stronghold of John’s shirt collar, Paul abruptly kissed his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Blind rage consumed John’s entire body. Before he could comprehend it, John’s instincts took control. He tightened a fist. In one fierce blow, John punched Paul in the face. Blood splattered from Paul’s nose, a crackling sound accompanying the horrendous punch. Immediately, Paul screamed in pain. He pulled away from John, as he held his nose tightly in horrific agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It was the first and only time that John had ever hit Paul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It took a few seconds for John to emerge to reality. He paused for a moment, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The first thing he noticed was the blood splattered onto the bed sheets. He looked up to Paul, who was frantically getting off the bed. Realizing exactly what he had done, John exclaimed, “Shit! God, Macca, I didn’t mean to!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fearfully glaring at John. Paul remained still, trembling lightly. His hand continued to hold his bloody nose, but the blood was quickly seeping through his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I didn’t know what I was doing!” yelled John, trying everything in his power to explain his actions, “Something just snapped in me. I would never mean to hurt you, Paul. You have to believe me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John was anticipating for Paul to shout out at him, but Paul responded far worse: </span>
  <em>
    <span>silence. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paul was utterly unresponsive. That same petrified, trembling expression remained on Paul’s face, but not a word escaped his lips. He took a step back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Paul…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Keeping his eyes on John, Paul’s hand frantically reached for the doorknob. In that moment, John jumped off the bed and to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Paul!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Swiftly, Paul turned the knob. Without removing his sight from John, Paul swung the door open and bolted out of the bedroom. John desperately tried to rush to him, only for Paul to swiftly slam the door in his face.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Spilt Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    The air laid cold and damp when George wrestled himself awake. His hand trembled as he placed it against his forehead, still stinging hot. His fever had lingered for three days at this point, ebbing and flowing in waves of pain. Squinting his eyes open, George caught a glimpse outside the window pane. It was still dark, but brilliant beams of sunshine underlined the horizon. He listened patiently to the snowfall, its heaviness yet to diminish. He drew a heavy sigh, until he realized that everyone else must be asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A smile grew on his face. The boys had been so patient and kind to him while he was ill, especially Ringo. Determined, George decided to make an early breakfast for them. Since they were low on materials, he decided pancakes would be the best choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    Maybe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>George thought, trying to remember what ingredients they had left, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if we have enough stuff, I’ll make whipped cream, too! </span>
  </em>
  <span>George grinned to himself. Ringo always loved his pancakes extra sugary. George could care less about any frills like that, but if Ringo was happy, he was happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Scrambling out of his bed, he wrapped a wool blanket around him. The fever made him feel frigid, as if he had slept outside all night. He silently tiptoed from his room, making sure to be extra quiet when passing John’s room. Once George entered the living room, something strange caught his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Laying on the carpet was Paul. Although he was facing the opposite way, George could tell by his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    This wasn’t much of a surprise to George. Last night, he had thought he had heard John and Paul fighting. The door had slammed at one point, to which George simply shrugged his shoulders at. Even on their best days, those two always had something to argue about. But now that they were stuck in the same room together for an unexpected duration, it wasn’t shocking to see one of them thrown out. Though, it normally was John that would storm away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With another sigh, George turned away to prepare the meal. Like any common Englishman, he started with preparing the tea and made a batch of coffee for John. A few minutes had passed as George began to boil the water. He wasn’t as astute in knowing how each boy liked their tea, but it was safe to assume that Paul would appreciate some milk in his tea. Picking out one of the largest mugs he had, he poured the tea and approached Paul’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    That is where George stopped dead in his tracks. Smeared across Paul’s face was dried blood. Following the tip of his nose was a line of blood, splattered on the white blanket. Quickly, George knelt down to him and urgently shook him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul immediately jolted awake, cowering away from George. He opened his eyes, which were a bit bloodshot from a restless night. As soon as he saw it was George, he eased up. He spoke softly, “You should go back to bed, George. Ringo’ll bring you some tea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Mate, what happened to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul tilted his head. Very delicately, George touched Paul’s face. He was careful to not scare Paul again. His finger lightly dug at the patch of dried blood. He showed Paul the flakes of blood. George tapped his finger on Paul’s chest, where the trail splattered blood was. Underneath his breath, Paul muttered, “Shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Was it John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-” Paul was left without much of a response. He stuttered for a moment, only giving an unenthusiastic shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “God, it was John, wasn’t it?” George’s face tightened in anger. He placed a protective hand on Paul’s shoulder as he glanced down the hallway. He muttered, “That asshole! He had no right--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It was an accident,” interrupted Paul. It was obvious that Paul didn’t want to give any details of the fight, which only irritated George more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “An accident? He decked you ‘cross the face and ye call it an accident?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul tried his best to avoid remembering last night. Unfortunately for Paul, he wasn’t blackout drunk. He could remember it very clearly: how he and John got close and Paul had kissed him, much to John’s dismay. It was no wonder why John had hit him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>thought Paul to himself, his face flushed in embarrassment, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why did I do that to him? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul stammered a bit, trying his best to avoid divulging, “It was my fault, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Don’t say that, Paul!” exclaimed George, his face heated in both fever and anger, “I couldn’t give a shit about what you might’ve said to him. He didn’t have to go off and hit you, Paul. No matter what you said, you didn’t deserve that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    It wasn’t normal to see George so worked up like this. George was a relatively passive kid, who would be the least likely to take up arms of the group. Paul was a bit shocked. With a nervous twitch, Paul stammered, “It… wasn’t something I said, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “It was something you did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul nodded and deeply sighed. He began to pull the covers of his head. A sickening feeling rumbled in Paul’s stomach. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could I have been so stupid? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Paul enjoyed that kiss, every microsecond of it. But it didn’t change the fact that it was forced. It didn’t change the fact that John had consistently said no, but Paul kissed him anyways. It didn’t change the fact that Paul was desperate for something more in their relationship, but John was repulsed by it. Paul was surprised that John didn’t act out worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George patiently waited for Paul’s reply. As he did, George gently let go of Paul. He returned again into the kitchen, where he grabbed a dark rag. Dampening it in water, George came to Paul’s side once more. Taking the wet rag, he began to wipe away the blood. As he wiped around Paul’s nose, Paul flinched and whined in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He didn’t break your nose, did he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul shrugged and said bitterly, “Probably. But if he didn’t, I’d give him another shot to do it. I deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George sat the wet rag on Paul’s chest. George’s face tightened in fury. He quickly rose to his feet, where he began to approach the front door. He bent down to grab his shoes. Then quickly, he gathered his coat and gloves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul lifted himself off his back. He raised his eyebrows, rather concerned, “George?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George didn’t answer him, but continued to put on his shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Heya George? You aren’t planning to leave, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I saw a cabin not too far from here. About two miles south,” said George, not looking over at Paul. He coughed a bit once a wave of fever struck his body. Yet determined, George continued to dress himself, “I’m getting us help before we end up killing each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “George, stop it! You’re the last one that needs to go out to get help. You’re sick and you don’t even know German.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George paused for a moment, only to say, “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to sing for them to prove I’m a lousy Brit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “That will prove you’re a Beatle, more like it,” said Paul, with a bit of a laugh, “If a fan finds you, they might not give you back.” Gradually, Paul stood up. Before George could take another step, Paul gently took a hold of his arm. It was very clear that George was set on leaving. But Paul spoke softly, trying his best to keep him in, “And if you leave, Ringo’ll kill us. Plus I’m not thrilled about having to get a new guitarist if you wind up freezing to death.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    They both chuckled softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Maybe you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I am right,” scoffed Paul. He deeply sighed, “I’ll sort things out with John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll </span>
  </em>
  <span>sort things out, Paul,” interrupted George, placing a firm hand on Paul’s shoulders. He shook his head and muttered, “Can’t have you getting a black eye, can we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Paul was ready to rebuttal George, but he wasn’t wrong. John’s mood was unpredictable. It wasn’t another fight that Paul feared the most… but having to face the fact that John wasn’t attracted to him in the same way he was. Thus, after a few moments of thinking, Paul answered him, “Maybe it’s best you apologize for me. Doubt he’ll be very eager to forgive me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>    What did Paul do that was so unforgivable? </span>
  </em>
  <span>George opened his lips to ask what had happened between them. But it was apparent that Paul was desperately hiding the reason for their fight. Despite his curiosity, George turned away. He walked into the kitchen once more and poured himself a cuppa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Maybe it was best that he didn’t know anything at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>    Another hour had passed. George finished preparing the pancake. Ringo woke up from the irresistible smell of breakfast, his feet sprinting into the kitchen in a heartbeat. As Paul and Ringo happily ate, George prepared John’s plate. It was fairly obvious that John was awake, since he was often the very first person to conquer the day. With a deep and anxious breath, George came to John’s door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “John? Brekkies on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There was a brief shuffle behind the closed door, but no answer was given. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With his hands full, all George could do was meekly nudge the door with his elbow. It remained closed tight, but without an open hand, all he could do was nudge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George asked once more, “Would you open the door, Johnny?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    Still, there was no answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A frustrated sigh rumbled under George’s breath. With a definitive and impatient knock, he hissed, “C’mon mate, it’s only me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A brief silence was held. George listened as John slowly emerged out of his bed. In a few moments, the door creaked open. George entered the dark and frigid room. Wrapped tightly in a thin sheet was John Lennon. His eyes were bloodshot, teary, and a bit swollen. The ends of his hair stuck up, while other parts stuck to his face. When he looked at George, his eyes quickly cast away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   With a low grunt, John simply stated, “Do me a favor and cough on the food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Well, aren’t you being overdramatic today?” George gave a soft smirk, handing over the plate and mug. He crossed his arms, “Been wondering when you were going to join us, but since you’re so persistently moody, I knew I had to bring you food before you’d starve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Shush it. Aren’t you supposed to be the quiet one?” John shushed him, a mischievous smile swirled on his face. With a gentle nod, he said, “Thanks for the brekkie, smartass.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George nodded, but stayed in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Have you had the chance to talk with the others?” John asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George nodded, “Yeah, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Have you talked to Paul?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George paused. A heaviness weighed heavy in the air like a sick and lingering hangover. John shifted his eyes away as he delicately sat at the edge of the bed. Cautiously, George approached him and spoke softly, “He’s doing alright, Johnny. He isn’t upset at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “This is Macca we are talking about,” scoffed John, crossing his arms as he carelessly expressed, “He’s just saying that to save face. He doesn’t want any of yous worried about what goes on between him and I, but when the door is closed… Oh God, he’s going to kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He said he was sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “He… what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George said, “That’s why I came in here, to tell you that he was sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    For a moment, John stared at the ground. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was there to be sorry for? I was the one who hit him! </span>
  </em>
  <span>John chuckled in disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    As John recollected his thoughts, George gently sat beside him. Taking a deep breath, George asked him, “Did you tell him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George was just waiting for the day that John would confess his love to Paul. It was so obvious</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    There was a moment where John paused, his lips quivering in insecurity. After the moment of hesitation, he replied, “The opposite, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “What do you mean?” George tilted his head, a bit disappointed that the moment hadn’t arrived, “Did y’tell him you hate him or somethin’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    A smirk grew on John’s face. He shook his head, “He kissed me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “I-- Im sorry, what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John motioned towards the bed and muttered, “He was drunk and kissed me and… I don’t know, I guess I just freaked out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Freaked out? You broke his nose, mate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John covered his face in embarrassment. He muttered, “I know, George. That’s why I need to apologize, not him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John rolled his eyes, “The sooner we get out of this cabin the better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    With a heavy sigh, George was ready to give John a snarky response. That was until his face clenched in pain. George began to cough, his hands quickly covering his mouth. In a fierce and relentless frenzy, he went into a coughing fit. When John had thought that George’s coughing was finished, it began again. Painfully overwhelmed, George clenched onto his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “You alright there, love?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    John glanced over to find George bent down, violently coughing into his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>    “Jesus, George! Why don’t you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George lifted up his head. Splattered across his hand was blood. With a weak smile, George said, “The sooner, the better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>    George looked up at John. Blood was dripping from the ends of his lips. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Sanatorium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Drawing his ciggie from his back pocket, Ringo perched it on his lips. Lighting it with a lighter, he gently inhaled. His insides swirled in warmth and bliss. Exhaling, a content smile grew on his face as he turned to Paul, saying, “Go on, I’m listenin’.”</p><p>    He extended another cig to Paul, who took it almost instantly. </p><p>    “He’s just an asshole, y’know?”</p><p>    Ringo nodded as he lit Paul’s cigarette. He didn’t say a word, allowing for Paul to express himself fully. Paul inhaled, closing his eyes. He flicked the ashes off onto the carpet. His eyes nervously scanned the room. Adjacent to him was a full length mirror. When he saw his reflection, he shivered. </p><p><em>     Shit, I look horrid, </em> thought Paul. <em> Thank God the press isn't here. </em></p><p>    Instinctively, Paul began to fix his hair. As he desperately arranged his hair, Paul muttered, “He has to take everythin’ so seriously. I mean he ALWAYS does, mate. Last night was just another example of…”</p><p>    Ringo uncomfortably stuttered, “Y-you didn’t even tell me what happened--”</p><p>    “--how he always has to jump to defense. It’s like y’can’t banter with him anymore in fear of him decking yous…”</p><p>    Raising his voice slightly, Ringo tried to justify John’s actions, “Look, whatever he did, maybe he was…”</p><p>    “And another thing!” interrupted Paul, shaking his head in anger, “If I was the one who decked him, he’d punch back. <em> Harder! </em>For someone whose all about sharin’ peace and harmony, what kind of a piece of shite do’y’havta be--?”</p><p>    At last, Ringo grew agitated. With a bit of a yell, he interrupted, “Look Paul. I… I mean, I don’t necessarily know him as well as you do, but…”</p><p>    “You know, Ringo? You’re exactly right!” In a vicious turn, Paul glared at Ringo. He flicked his cigarette towards him and snarled, “You’re <em> exactly </em> right! You don’t know him as well as I do. So do us both a favor and save your breath. God knows you talk enough rubbish around here.” </p><p>    Paul slammed the cigarette butt onto the coffee table. The ember left a burn against the stained wood. He couldn’t stand to look at Ringo any longer. Yet he extended his hand out, indicating Ringo to give him another cigarette. Drawing a heavy sigh, Ringo obliged. He gave Paul his last cigarette, handing it over meekly like a nerd would give a bully his lunch.  </p><p>    Ringo shrugged. <em> He needs it more than I do, I guess. </em>After giving him the cigarette, Ringo vacated the living room. While walking past the mirror, he noticed his reflection. He grimaced at his unkempt facial hair. Ringo normally wouldn’t let his beard grow out this long, especially since the Beatles (mainly Paul) were so keen about keeping precise appearances. Ready to trim up his beard, Ringo headed towards the bathroom. </p><p>    But when he approached the bathroom, he heard coughing from within. Ringo tilted his head, hollering out loud, “George?”</p><p>    A voice replied, “Ringo? Ringo! Thank God it’s you.” </p><p>    The voice wasn’t George’s, but John’s. </p><p>    The door swayed open. Ringo peered in to find John frantically holding a wet cloth to George’s forehead. Perched on top of the bathroom sink was George. He shivered like a frail child. His skin was pale and deathly, his lips as dry as a desert. George clenched his hands together, sweat dripping from his brow. From a distance, one couldn’t tell that it was George. </p><p>    “George, y’alright mate?”</p><p>    “I--” As George opened his lips, an intense wave of pain hit him. He clenched his face, letting out a pained cry. Ringo leaned in closer. On the corners of George’s lips was blood. </p><p>    A sudden panic swept over Ringo. Instinctively, Ringo’s hand reached out. He began to shove John out from the bathroom, while shouting at John, “You need to find a doctor. I don’t care how y’do it, but he needs a hospital immediately!” </p><p>    Ringo continued to shove John down the hallway. The urgency in Ringo’s voice frightened John completely. He raised an eyebrow, scoffing a bit, “What’re y’on about, Ringo? Christ, stop pushing me!” He shoved Ringo back.</p><p>    “It’s…” Ringo glanced back into the bathroom, worried. Discreetly, Ringo pulled John further down the hall. Once out of earshot from George, Ringo whispered harshly, “It’s consumption.”</p><p>    “You’re not fecking with me, are you? Tuberculosis?”</p><p>    Ringo nodded, his hands anxiously running through his hair, “He’s coughing up blood, he has a fever, and he looks like a bloody ghost. What else do you think it is?” </p><p>    Placing his hands on his hips, John had to pause. He shook his head in disbelief, muttering, “Since when did you become a doc, genius?” </p><p>    Ringo opened his mouth to respond, but changed his mind. With a gentle shrug, Ringo began to turn away. He said once more, “Go find a doctor. I’ll take care of Georgie from here, but you need to hurry!”</p><p>    “Right, right,” snarled John, “So let’s just send Johnny out into the tundra to die of hypothermia. Meanwhile you and George can snuggle up, drink some hot cocoa, and sing auld lang syne, how’s that sound ‘bout now?” </p><p>    “This isn't a time to--! Fine. Just take Paul with you.”</p><p>    With a deep throated chuckle, John snarled, “Thanks but no. I’ll take my chances on being rescued by a nine foot kraut and never be found again. But be sure to tell Paul that--”</p><p>    John started to turn away. As he did, however, he suddenly bumped up to someone. Both heads knocked into one another. John stumbled back to find Paul, rubbing his head. With a pout on his face, Paul whined, “Shit! Watch where you’re walking, mate.” </p><p>    Realizing it was Paul, John quickly stumbled back. His eyes immediately scanned Paul’s face. His nose was bent and bruised, clearly broken. John’s heart sank at Paul’s despicable state. Yet Paul, readjusting his hair, seemed poised and calm as ever. He smiled contently, but chose to glance over John. His eyes caught a glimpse of Ringo, who was pacing around anxiously. Paul asked, “How’s our little patient doing? He's planning on making us lunch sometime soon?” </p><p>    Ringo approached Paul, lowering his voice. He whispered, “George is getting worse.” </p><p>    “Worse as in?” </p><p>    Ringo was ready to respond, until being interrupted. Coughing echoed from the bathroom. Ringo glanced back, his face flushed in worry. Ringo leaned into the bathroom and said gently, “George love, y’alright? Hang tight, I’ll grab you some water.”</p><p>    Weakly, George mumbled, “Tea, please?” </p><p>    Ringo patiently corrected him, “Water. We need to keep you hydrated.” </p><p>    George grumbled to himself. </p><p>    Closing the door, Ringo walked over to John and Paul. Crossing his arms, Ringo muttered to the both of them, “Find someone, <em> anyone. </em>Look, it doesn’t need to be a doctor. If they have a working phone, that’s all that matters.”</p><p>    “Ringo?” Paul’s face grew white. He anxiously asked, “What’s going on? I thought all that George had was a wee virus.”</p><p>    Ringo gave the grim news, “George is showing signs of TB. Look, chances are that it’s not TB. But the lad’s coughin’ up a lung and spitting up enough blood to refill a blood bank. So I say play it safe then sorry..” </p><p>    “How are you so sure that he’s got TB?” asked John once more, a bit agitated, “Didya get a medical degree before joinin’ us, mate?”</p><p>    Ringo glanced away. Unlike before, he didn’t hesitate to reply, “Well, I had TB as a lad. Almost killed me too, but I got admitted into the Sanatorium before the whole “coughing up blood” part. But George has kinda passed that part, so…”</p><p>    Both John and Paul stared at Ringo, blankly. Neither of them had the slightest clue about that. <em> Come to think of it, </em> thought Paul, a bit embarrassed, <em> I don’t think I know anything about Ringo’s life before The Beatles! </em></p><p>    The first to respond was Paul, who quietly admitted, “I had no idea, Ringo.”</p><p>    “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” Ringo anxiously ran his fingers through his hair. No matter how long ago that time was, Ringo couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed about it. The lonely, painful nights that Ringo spent in the Sanatorium as a child still haunted him to this day. He shook his head at the thought of it, trying to chase off those memories with something else. He clenched his eyes tight, thinking of anything else to ease his mind. The first thought that came to mind was sweet, sweet George. </p><p>    A gentle smile came to Ringo’s face.</p><p>    Yet still curious, Paul asked, “How old were you?”</p><p>    “Twelve,” answered Ringo, shortly. With a heavy sigh, Ringo revealed some more, “But that’s after the fact that I got appendicitis, peritonitis, and fell into a coma for four days. With that and my two years in the Sanatorium, I spent almost four years in hospitals. Makes for a shitty childhood, don’t it?”</p><p>    Both John and Paul were struck amazed. None of them could have expected for Ringo to have such a horrific childhood. Everyone has heard of the Liverpool Sanatorium, where TB patients would be cooped up together and die. John and Paul simply assumed that the patients entered and never came out alive. Yet standing before them was a walking miracle. </p><p>    “When were you going to tell us this?” asked John. It was surprising that this never came into conversation. Surely, Ringo would have countless stories from his time in the hospital or the Sanatorium!</p><p>    Yet clearly, the look of discomfort on Ringo’s face was obvious. The memories began to flood his mind once more. His breathing grew heavy, but Ringo quickly shook his head once more. He mustered up a measly smile, “Guess we never got ‘round to it.”</p><p>    Ringo then walked towards the kitchen. In a deep hiss, he whispered, “You two get going! Surely there’s a neighbor nearby whose got a working phone.”</p><p>    Paul was quick to reply, “Two miles south. That’s what George said, at least.”</p><p>    Ringo nodded, then departed to the kitchen. Left on their own, John and Paul turned towards one another. They listened as Ringo filled up a cup of water and while George coughed out his lungs. Both men couldn’t keep eye contact with each other. Standing at opposite sides of the hallway, they waited in silence for the other to make a move. </p><p>    When Ringo returned to the hallway, with water at hand, he was pissed to see them still there. He looked at the both of them, disapprovingly. He sighed in anger and said, “Would you <em> please, </em>for the love of God, go? We’re talking about George’s life here!”</p><p>    At that sound of that, John finally spoke up. He extended his hand, placing it softly on Paul’s back. Yet surprisingly, Paul didn’t flinch. Their eyes met. A gentle smile grew on John’s face, “C’mon Macca. Two miles south, aye?”</p><p>    “Aye, John.”</p><p>    Paul let out a brief smile. He slipped his hand out and placed it on John’s shoulder. A chill ran down his back. The two of them finally turned away towards the front door.</p><p>    “That’s the spirit!” hollered Ringo before walking into the bathroom. John and Paul got ready to set forth, putting on their coats, hats, and gloves. They wrapped scarves around each others necks, to make sure the other would be extra warm.</p><p>    As the pair got ready for their embarkment, Paul and John could hear Ringo sweetly coo, “Now George love, there’s your water. Let’s get you back in bed, dear.”</p><p> </p><p>    The house became significantly quieter once John and Paul left. Ringo sighed in heavy relief. There was no indecent shouting or arguing, no beratement or belittling.Ringo gently walked George back to his room, where he softly tucked him in. George whined, kicking off the blankets in protest. Ringo obliged, but left a thin sheet over George’s feverish body. Sinking contently into the mattress and pillows, George spoke up, “Ringo?”</p><p>    Sitting at the end of the bed, with his hands rubbing George’s aching feet, was Ringo. He smiled briefly, “Right here, Georgie.”</p><p>    When George took a long look at Ringo, he could tell that he was anxious. George sat up a bit, leaning towards Ringo, and asked directly, “It’s not just a virus, is it?”</p><p>    There wasn’t an ounce of fear on George’s face. He remained resiliently still. The ends of his hair stuck up, his boyish locks sticking into his sweaty face. He had the sweet innocence of a child, blissfully unaware that he possibly has TB. Ringo’s heart melted.</p><p>    “We’re not sure yet, mate.” </p><p>    “But if it’s not a virus, what is it?”</p><p>    Ringo stuttered for a moment. When he glanced over at George, a small hint of fear sprawled across his face. Quickly, Ringo stood up. Walking to George’s bedside table, he took the cup of water. It was nearly empty. </p><p>    “I’ll fill yer glass up, George-love.”</p><p>    “Tea?”</p><p>    Ringo shook his head, sternly saying, “George…”</p><p>    George pouted, his bottom lip sticking out. He crossed his arms, batting his brown puppy-dog eyes. As he glanced down, Ringo couldn’t resist that face. He sighed, “Fine. Just a cuppa. And you’re drinking water, too.”</p><p>    As Ringo departed to the kitchen, thoughts raced through his mind. <em> Surely this isn’t TB, surely this isn’t TB… Shit, what if it is?! </em>Ringo would never wish that disease on his worst enemy, let alone his best friend. It was a prison sentence. Having his lungs being torn apart from the inside out wasn’t even the worst of it. Even in the 1960s, if someone had TB, their chances of survival weren’t very high. Not only that, TB victims were shipped off to a godforsaken asylum as if they had leprosy. It took everything from Ringo: his health, his teen years, and his education. Thankfully, he hadn’t started his music career until later. </p><p>   Yet if George somehow contracted TB? His music career, as he knew it, would be over. Knowing John and Paul’s ambition, the band wouldn’t wait until he was in better health. They’d probably be across the World, performing in Carnegie Hall by the time that George felt better. </p><p>    As he boiled the water, Ringo desperately tried to calm his nerves. His twitching hands reached into his pockets, only to find them completely empty. He sighed, remembering that he had given Paul his last ciggy. He muttered underneath his breath, “Shit.”</p><p>    “Fancy a cig, Rings?” </p><p>    The voice came from behind him. Ringo turned over his shoulder to find George standing in the kitchen. He draped the linen cloth around him, loosely. With that white cloth around him and his face as pale as death, George looked like a ghost. </p><p>    Meekly, George extended his hand. In his palm was a handful of cigarettes. A gentle smile swirled on his cheeks. He spoke gently, “Take it.”</p><p>    Ringo hushed, approaching him with caution, “George! You shouldn’t be up, go back to bed!”</p><p>    “What? It’s not like I’m dying.” George chuckled, persistently putting out his hand. He repeated, “Take it.”</p><p>    With a bit of hesitation, Ringo took the cigarettes. He perched one of the cigarettes to his lips. As he did, George walked towards him. Out of his back pocket, George withdrew a lighter. Within a few tries, George flickered the lighter, then drew the flame up to Ringo’s cigarette. He lit the ciggie for him, saying softly, “Paul didn’t bully y’outta your last cig, did he?”</p><p>    Ringo chuckled, “After him and John’s whole fiasco, I didn’t mind giving him one.”</p><p>    “Let’s hope they don’t kill each other out there.”</p><p>    Both men laughed. George glanced up and towards the window. A delicate snowfall came whistling through the air. It was a bit lighter than before, thankfully. Yet as far as the eye could see, the land was smothered in bitter, bitter snow. It was at least a foot deep. George shivered at the sight. </p><p>    George stood behind Ringo, watching contently as the water was approaching a boil. He listened quietly as the water bubbled. His eyes wandered down towards Ringo, who was inhaling on the cigarette. As he exhaled, an elegant puff of smoke steamed from the corner of his mouth. A peaceful silence fell between the both of them as the water continued to heat.</p><p>    Ringo felt George press closely behind him. He hadn’t noticed it at first, until George's arms began to reach over him. In a soft embrace, George held onto Ringo. He even placed the linen cloth around Ringo's shoulders. George's chin on top of Ringo’s head, his eyes gazing out the window. Ringo could feel his feverish body radiate heat. </p><p>    George nuzzled his chin on top of Ringo’s head. The silence was interrupted as George began to lightly hum.</p><p>    Ringo inhaled on his cigarette once more.  George’s humming was a melody that Ringo couldn’t recall; yet, he listened to each and every note. </p><p>    Surely, whatever George was sick with, he was contagious. It would probably be best to push him away, shoving him back into his room and keeping the door shut. Yet as George’s arms wrapped around him, Ringo’s anxiety and nerves were completely melted away. And, with that, his common sense. To Ringo, it didn’t matter than George perhaps had one of the most contagious and dangerous diseases known to man.</p><p>    If he did, at least they’d be quarantined together.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ave Maria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey! So glad that you are enjoying this!! &lt;3 It makes me so happy that a lot of you are leaving such sweet and kind comments. Thank you for your support... I honestly didn't expect this many hits! </p><p>Oh! And if you're ever interested in doing collabs, please let me know! I can write for any of the boys, easily. Or if you just want to chat n stuff, check out my twitter or insta!<br/>Twitter/insta: starkey_zak</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    In the midst of a bleak and early sunset, the world around them became a snow globe, shaken by the hands of a vengeful God. Latter day beams of light scorched the deserted horizon. There was no sight of life, not even a single glimpse of wildlife. The air flowed of bitter snowfall, increasing with each and every step. </p><p>    As the skies grew dark, John could no longer see Paul in the midst of the snowfall. Anxiety consumed his body, his breathing growing heavier in a panic. Everything around him began to close in on him. The skies around him almost went pitch black. He stuck out his hand, hollering out his name, “Paul?” </p><p>    John peered into the darkness, shivering in pure terror. Then suddenly, a warm hand grabbed hold of John’s. The light had returned. In the midst of the chaos, Paul’s soft and gentle face emerged. A precious smile grew on his face, right under his frostbitten nose. His sweet voice hushed him, “Right here, Johnny.”</p><p>    Paul’s boyish, irresistible charm was impossible to ignore. A warmness flourished in John’s body, from head to toe, even reaching the tip of his frozen nose. John couldn’t help but smile, clutching onto Paul’s hand. He spoke sweetly, “I’m glad. Thought I lost you.” </p><p>    His eyes moved skyward. They had only walked for an hour. Yet as the snow flowed heavier, it almost seemed like nightfall. Silence had filled the air as they began the walk, each of them searching for the right words to say. Yet finding none, both men stayed quiet. Each of them had their apologies to say, but neither was willing to admit it. Admitting they were wrong was neither of their best strengths. </p><p>    So, to hold onto their pride, neither spoke a word. </p><p>    Yet with the sun lowering, Paul decided to speak up, “Maybe it’s best we head back. I don’t see another cabin anywhere.”</p><p>    “Surely it’s gotta be somewhere, innit?” </p><p>    John took another step forward. His feet suddenly began to slip from underneath him. In that instant, John panicked and began to pull Paul down with him. </p><p>    “Shit!”</p><p>    Before he could fall onto the ice, Paul was swift to action. Firmly planting himself, Paul caught John. Clutching tight onto him, he lifted John off his feet. The two twirled around as Paul searched for a place to place him, safely. John was rather surprised that Paul could carry him. Taking a few steps backwards, Paul quickly planted him back onto solid ground. </p><p>    Both men caught their breath. John began to nervously laugh, only for Paul to yell, “Are you blind, Lennon?!”</p><p>    Paul gave him an impatient thump on his forehead.</p><p>    Still, John continued to laugh. Paul scowled. Crossing his arms, Paul continued to berate him, “You need to watch where you’re walking. You coulda got hurt!”</p><p>    “Don’t be so soft, Paulie.” </p><p>    Paul clutched a bit tighter to John, his hands tugging at John’s waist. His second hand reached up, where he flicked the back of John’s head. John glanced down, raising an eyebrow. He hadn’t been aware that Paul was still holding onto him, tight. John chuckled. He ruffled Paul’s hair, muttering under his breath, “You’re such a twat.”</p><p>    As John spoke, he glanced over to the area he had slipped. He elbowed Paul, asking him, “What is that, over there?”</p><p>    When Paul turned, his eyes noticed the spot where John had tripped. It was a steep and icy hill, full of bumps and rolls. At the very bottom of the hill was an icy pond, sparkling from the bask of the lowering sun. As John’s eyes squinted, trying to desperately see what was out there, Paul muttered, “Jesus. You really are blind.”</p><p>    As Paul spoke, his voice echoed down the hill. Paul tilted his head, listening to his own voice reverberate across the pond. It left a delicate ringing noise in his ear. Yet John, still blind as a bat, asked again, “What is it?”</p><p>    “A hill with a nice pond at the bottom of it. You’re lucky I caught you, Lennon. You would’ve slid right into it.” Paul smirked. His hands reached up to John’s head, where he lightly ruffled his bangs. John whined, lightly pushing Paul’s hands away. </p><p>    “You really are a brat, Macca.”</p><p>    “Well, Lennon... What are you going to do about that?” </p><p>    With his eyes clenched, Paul grinned at John, awaiting a snarky comeback. Or perhaps something more. </p><p>    Concealing his smile, John stared at him for a moment. He glanced around. Then, when Paul’s arms began to relax around him, John seized his shoulder. Holding carefully onto him, John thrusted Paul forward, as if he were going to throw him down the hill. Paul was terrified, letting out a frightful shrill. </p><p>    Oh so deceitfully, John released him. Paul’s heart nearly lept out of his body. Yet before Paul could fall, John swiftly caught him by his chest. Once he swooped him off his feet, he spun him around a few times. Paul screamed a bit more, kicking his legs back and forth.</p><p>    “Put me down!! I swear to God, John!”</p><p>     After the fourth or fifth spin, John drew a heavy sigh and plopped both of them to the ground. </p><p>    Paul finally caught his breath, yelling at John, “Are you trying to kill me?!”</p><p>    “Oh come on now, Macca. You loved it, <em> in spite of all the danger. </em>”</p><p>    Both of them chuckled. With a blissful grin, Paul hummed to the melody of “In Spite of All the Danger”. As he did, he noticed how his voice echoed. They listened as his melody was carried across the frozen tundra. It truly had a lovely ring to it. </p><p>    While Paul continued to hum, John stretched out his legs from what seemed like  a never-ending journey. As the two of them gazed out into the delightful scenery (or a delightful blurriness, for John), they leaned against one another. </p><p>    Underneath his breath, Paul began to hum another song. John was familiar with the tune, but couldn’t quite name it. He believed he had heard his Aunt Mimi singing it at one point, or perhaps a wedding or funeral. Whatever it was, it was something spiritual. Normally, John was excellent at naming a tune, even as much as knowing when it was published. Yet for the life of him, he just couldn’t place it. It was as though his memory refused for him to recall it. </p><p>    Paul laid his head on John’s shoulders. With his eyes fixated on the pond, he sang in falsetto, “<em>Ave Maria, gratia plena.” </em></p><p><em>     His mother’s funeral. </em>That’s where John remembered it. Memories began to flood his mind. He could painfully recall lying his head on his Aunt Mimi’s lap as this song was sung, his mother’s casket laying right before him. His fists clenched. John opened his mouth, about ready to interrupt Paul.</p><p>    That was until, yet again, Paul McCartney’s voice enchanted him. The hill echoed Paul's sweet and cherished melody. A warmness filled John’s body. No matter how many years would pass, Paul’s voice was John’s kryptonite. Even with its bitter connection to his past, John was desperate to hear him sing more.</p><p>    In a whim, Paul switched his lyrics into German,<em> “</em><em>Erhöre einer Jungfrau Flehen. Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild.” </em></p><p>    John chuckled, then whistled along with it. From what he could remember, though he wished he could forget it all, there was a delightful piano melody that accompanied the vocalist. And so, with what he could recall, he whistled the accompaniment. </p><p>    “Ah, I never would’ve guessed you knew Ave Maria.”</p><p>    John shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”</p><p>    As John whistled an impromptu piano accompaniment, Paul’s voice continued to carelessly stream across the hallowed valley, “Wir schlafen sicher bis zum Morgen. Ob Menschen noch so grausam sind.”</p><p>    Both Paul and John anticipated the high note. Paul cleared his throat, “<em>O Jungfrau, sieh der Jungfrau…</em>” And, with a painful voice crack, Paul screeched a falsetto F4 note, “<em>Sorgen!</em>”</p><p>    “Jesus, Paulie, just sing right in my ear, why don’t’ya?” </p><p>    To which, Paul continued with elegancy, “<em>O Mutter, hör ein bittend Kind.”</em></p><p>    Paul’s voice paused, as he carefully listened to his voice being carried out across the reverberating hill. The ring was satisfying to the ear, even despite the horrid voice crack. John closed his eyes, listening as the hills carried out his melody. Each hill took a hold of his voice, passing it along to the following hill like a game of relay. The sweet melody softly died as it reached over the horizon. </p><p>    Silence fell between the both of them.</p><p>    Paul fluttered his eyes open, bits of snow flicking off his eyelashes. As he looked up at John, he noticed that John was looking at him. John’s eyes were fixated on Paul’s nose, which he had broken the night before. John sighed heavily, ready to apologize. </p><p>    That was until Paul did it first...</p><p> <em>   “I’m sorry.”</em></p><p>    Paul’s mouth remained gaped open, his eyes wandering elsewhere as he tried to phrase his apology right. How was he supposed to say it? Lie and say he didn’t mean to kiss him? Tell him the truth, that the kiss was all he could dream of and more? His eyes eventually wandered over to John. As he examined John, he noticed a worried look covering his face. </p><p>    With a deep breath, Paul said, “I’m sorry I kissed you. N-not sorry in the sense of…” Paul shook his head and started over, “I’m sorry I kissed you when you didn’t want to be kissed. It was wrong of me and I deserved this.” </p><p>    John blinked. <em> Why is he apologizing? </em> With a nervous chuckle, John responded with gentle grace, “Paulie, <em> I’m </em>the one that needs to apologize. I hit you! And no matter what you might have said and done, that doesn’t mean you deserved that. Especially when you’re drunk. It’s not like you knew what you were doing, right?”</p><p>    Paul stared blankly at him. His anxious hands clenched together.</p><p>    “...Right?” John asked. </p><p>    “I knew exactly what I was doing, Johnny.” </p><p>    Paul’s face blushed. He quickly turned away, holding his breath in anticipation of John’s response.</p><p>    In a stutter, John asked, “So... did you mean it?”</p><p>    “Like I said, I knew what I was doing.”</p><p>    Gently, the men turned inward to each other. A fresh blush covered both of their faces. A nervous laugh muttered underneath their breath. John carefully reached out his hand, gently stroking Paul’s forearm. With a grin, John leaned a bit more, “Well… now that you’re sober, do you still mean it?” </p><p>    “Hmmm… did I mean it?”</p><p>    John’s heart thumped. He growled, “Don’t be cheeky. Just answer the question.”</p><p>    Paul glanced down to John’s hand. He clutched John’s hand and brought it up to his own face. Paul’s rosey cheeks radiated heat as John gently stroked his face. John couldn’t get his eyes off Paul, no matter how hard he tried. In a bit of gruff grumble, Paul said, “Yes. I mean it, if you mean it, too.” </p><p>    “Of course I mean it.”John squeezed Paul’s cheek lightly, the tips of his fingers lightly rubbing his temple.</p><p>     Paul let out a soothing sigh. He whispered, “So, can we try again?”</p><p>    “Only if I get to lead.”  </p><p>    With the tip of his thumb, John lifted Paul’s chin. His other hand reached his back, pushing him towards him. Paul closed his eyes, tilting his head as the two leaned in. </p><p>    As John’s lips met Paul’s warm and sweet lips, a spark exploded. John pressed in a bit more, his hand gently gazing down Paul’s arm. He leaned him back. An audible gasp escaped Paul’s lips, his hands reaching down to grip John’s waist. Excitement pulsed through their veins as their lips pressed, rougher and harder. </p><p>    The hills rang from the soft and sweet smacking of their lips. </p><p> </p><p>    Two miles south of the reverberating hills was George and Ringo. Ringo had sentenced George to bedrest while he prepared a later lunch. He made a large meal, in case that Paul and John came back with a helpful but hungry rescue team. Using almost all that was left of the food, Ringo created a makeshift casserole from the black pudding, beans, and cornmeal. For the side dish, he pan fried the rest of the potatoes. At the end of it all, almost every cabinet was empty. All that remained was bread and (again) a shit ton of beans. </p><p>    Satisfied with his creation, he brought it over to George’s room. With a gentle knock, he raised his voice, “George, lunch is ready.”</p><p>    George coughed heavily, muttering softly in pain, “Come in.”</p><p>    As Ringo opened the door, he glanced over at George. A bit of color was back on George’s face. Earlier that afternoon, Ringo placed a damp rag on his forehead to ease the fever. Although it was now tossed off and onto the floor, George was looking far better than before. Ringo grabbed a tea towel. He delicately draped it over George, before placing the plate on his lap. Braving a smile, Ringo handed him a fork, saying, “Eat up, now. You’ll feel better.”</p><p>    Before George could take a bite, Ringo placed the back of his hand onto George’s forehead. <em> Still hot. </em>Ringo frowned. He bent down to grab the cloth. Drawing a heavy sigh, Ringo left to the kitchen once more, where he dampened the cloth. Once it was cold and wet, he brought it back to George, who began to happily munch on his food.</p><p>    “Chin up, love,” commanded Ringo. George obliged, raising his head. Delicately, Ringo placed the damp cloth over his stinging, feverish forehead. Ringo readjusted it, making sure the damp cloth was perfect for his little patient. Satisfied, George grinned and nodded, proceeding to munch more on his food.</p><p>    That was until he coughed a bit more. His eyes glanced elsewhere as he desperately tried to cover his cough. Ringo stepped back. George noticed. </p><p>    As his cough subsided, George shook his head. He muttered, “Ringo?”</p><p>    “Yeah, George? You need water or..?”</p><p>    “Do you think this is TB?”</p><p>    Ringo paused in his tracks. His lips parted, only for an insecure gasp to squeak out from him. He didn’t have the right words to say. </p><p>    George continued, “I had a cousin… Well, it was me mum’s cousin. She was six when she got Tuberculosis. It took her parents one week to figure out she had TB and only three days to say goodbye. Her death was kinda the opposite to Jesus’s, I suppose. She got bad news on Friday and died on Easter Sunday.”</p><p>    “George… c’mon mate, you aren’t going to die.”</p><p>    “A lot of my mum’s side contracted it. They were well meaning people, taking care of that sick girl and all. But three of them died from it; one of them was my Great Aunt, the girl’s mum.” George looked over at Ringo, who was shaking his head at George’s story. There was a pain in Ringo’s eyes that he wasn’t willing to show. Carefully, George inched away from Ringo, saying with a degree of sorrow, “I don’t want that to happen to you, Ringo. You really ought to leave. Quarantine yourself.  I can handle me ownself.”</p><p>    Ringo shook his head, “You don’t have TB, George.</p><p>    “But what if I do? Shouldn’t we be safer than sorry?”</p><p>    Despite every urge in Ringo to help and care for his bandmate, he knew that George’s common sense was dead on. It would probably be safest to lock George away. With a heavy sigh, Ringo admitted, “You’re right.”</p><p>    Ringo turned away, his eyes fixated on the door. George made perfect sense. <em> I wouldn’t want TB twice in my life, would I? </em>Ringo shivered at the thought. Before leaving, he took George’s plate off of his lap and onto the nightstand. </p><p>    “Hey.” George’s voice stopped Ringo in his tracks. Ringo turned around to find George, smiling at him. With a bit of a giggle, George remarked, “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a hell of a good wife. I mean… how you take care of me. And this food? C’mon mate, you’re a natural housewife.”</p><p>    Ringo raised an eyebrow, “What? So… A husband can’t cook or take care of his partner?”</p><p>    “That’s not what I meant!” George grumbled, “You’re such a…”</p><p>    With his mouth gaped open to continue his snarky response, a shrill escaped his throat. George clenched his face tightly as pain terrorized his body. The pain throbbed in his lungs and throat. He began to cough violently. As his eyes clenched tight, tears trickled down his cheek. Panting heavily, George cried out in agony, “Oh God… Oh God!”</p><p>    At first glance, it seemed as though that George was having a heart attack. </p><p>    Drawing a heavy breath, George went into another coughing fit. But this time, Ringo rushed to his aid. Ringo’s face grew white in fear as he witnessed George gasping for even an ounce of fresh air. George’s face became white, a hint of blue blushing underneath his cheeks. Cough after cough, George’s body shook violently. Frantic but without delay, Ringo jumped into action. </p><p>    “Stay right where you are, Georgie!” </p><p>    Lunging to the other side of the bed, Ringo knelt at George’s side on the mattress. Gathering every pillow around him, he propped George’s head up. Ringo was extra careful when delicately placing his head down. He laid him firmly on his back. Ringo’s hands grabbed hold onto George’s arms. He crossed his arms over his chest, placing each of his arms over his aching and pained lungs. </p><p>    Yet, despite every attempt Ringo made, George’s coughing wouldn’t cease. His eyes glanced over to Ringo. A shimmer in George’s eyes revealed that George was completely terrified. Leaning over to the table, Ringo grabbed the glass of water next to him. Leaning over George, he perched the glass onto George’s lips. He whispered, “Drink up, just a bit.” </p><p>    George shook his head, horrified that he might possibly choke on the water. Yet persistently, Ringo pressed the cold glass of water to his lips. With a single nod, George gave into Ringo’s request. Ringo tipped the glass lightly into George’s mouth, who swiftly drank the water.</p><p>    “There you are, love.”</p><p>    George took a gulp, swallowing some. But he began to cough some more, “Gah!”</p><p>    He coughed up a bit of the water. Some of it dripped from his lips, but he managed to swallow most of it. There was a brief moment of silence as George continued to gasp for air. A warm smile came to Ringo’s face, who cheered him on, “You’re doing great, George.” </p><p>    The color slowly came back to George’s face. His coughing slowly, yet surely, subsided to the occasional cough. Ringo’s fingers began to lightly play in George’s hair, tugging lightly on his locks every-so often. George’s body continued to shake lightly, his throat and lungs still fighting for a chance to relax. </p><p>    For a moment, Ringo paused.<em> It would probably be best to leave him alone. </em>Yet, as Ringo saw the miserable state that George was in, he couldn’t help but sympathize. Being alone while miserably sick was far worse than the illness itself. The long-stretched, lonely years in the Sanatorium haunted Ringo to that day. When imagining George being stuck in that Sanatorium, all by himself along with other dying patients, Ringo couldn’t help but shudder. </p><p>    So, Ringo stayed. </p><p>    Delicately, he laid at George’s side. George gave him a strange glance, opening his mouth to say something. But as he glanced down, he noticed that Ringo’s arms were wrapped around him, tight. George’s mouth quivered for a moment, holding back the comment he was ready to make. </p><p>    Despite having to relive the harsh memories of his past, Ringo tried to remember what helped him most of all. On one particular evening, when Ringo was first admitted, he was having a particularly bad coughing spell. He could remember it being so bad that he would cry out for his mum, knowing well that she was an hour away. A nurse, who couldn’t help but sympathize for this poor child crying for his mother, gently rubbed his chest for a moment or so. Ringo wasn’t quite sure whether it helped or not, or it was because the nurse was undeniably attractive. Despite the matter, Ringo’s hands slipped underneath George’s shirt.</p><p>    Immediately, George reopened his eyes, gasping, “W-what are you--?”</p><p>    Ringo’s fingertips pressed into the center of George’s chest. Slowly, his fingertips rubbed around in circles across his chest. Ringo closed his eyes, leaning in as his fingers worked their magic. </p><p>    A gentle coo came from George’s lips. The delicate, warm touch of Ringo’s fingertips on his aching chest was precisely what he needed. He closed his eyes. As he drifted into slumber, his head rolled over to the side. George’s chin sat over the top of Ringo’s head. Ringo continued until a gentle, soothing snore escaped George’s lips. A bit of drool began to fall onto Ringo’s head. With a gentle chuckle, Ringo’s hand laid still on George’s chest. At last, resting comfortably in each other's arms, the two bandmates fell asleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Bluest Eyes in the World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hiya guys! Sorry for the bit of a delay-- I've been a bit busy with summer classes.<br/>If you'd like to ever collab or just want to talk, I have a few social medias we can connect with! </p><p>Insta &amp; twitter; @starkey_zak<br/>I'm also on staff for two AMAZING Beatles servers. They are Nowhereland and The_Beatles. If you're wanting to find like-minded nerds like me, join those servers!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    God’s furious anger thrashed around John and Paul as the day went by. As hours passed, the sun began to wane, extending its hand to the relentless night. There seemed to be no end to the hellfire that reigned over them, nor was there a shelter in sight. The wind was picking up, so much so that the two became simultaneously blinded by the snowstorm. Even Paul had difficulties seeing. Yet Paul persistently pressed on, holding tight to his blinded friend. But as the weather grew worse and worse, even Paul’s spirit began to sink. </p><p>    “C’mon mate,” cheered on Paul, “There’s got to be a cabin about here, somewhere.” He desperately grinned, but his forced enthusiasm had no effect on John Lennon. In fact, it did quite the opposite.</p><p>    “You said that an hour ago,” muttered John, who was pressed closely to Paul’s side. John shook his head, “We’ve walked plenty more than two miles, Paul. I think George must’ve imagined this cabin.”</p><p>    “But what if he didn’t?”</p><p>    “<em>What if? </em> God, Paul! Don’t be so feckin’ daft. Georgie’s sick, his fever’s makin’ him imagine things. You’re going to take a sick man’s words so seriously that you’re willing to risk both our lives?” Without a warning, John stopped dead in his tracks. The abrupt stop jolted Paul backwards, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Firmly taking a stand, John exclaimed, “We’re going back to our cabin. If we hurry now, we will make it back right after sunset.” </p><p>    Paul scowled, “George needs our help, John.”</p><p>    “George doesn’t need us dead, Paul. At this rate, the only one living will be Ringo. They’ll have to change the band’s name to Ringo and the Zombies.”</p><p>    With a grin, Paul responded, “Might have a copyright issue on that, dearie.”</p><p>    John rolled his eyes, but chuckled underneath his breath. Yet as his eyes scanned around, it was very clear that if they stayed outside any longer, they’d risk getting hypothermia. It wouldn’t surprise John if one of them got it already. </p><p>    But with persistence, Paul fought back, “Let’s stay out a bit longer. We’ll check and see if we might’ve missed a cabin nearby…”</p><p>    “We? For fuck’s sake, Paul, I can’t even see me own hands, let alone a cabin across a feckin’ tundra!” John then crossed his arms, hissing, “And what makes you so sure this cabin’ll have a phone? Let alone a phone that’ll work?” </p><p>    Paul paused for a moment. <em> He does have a point…  </em></p><p>    “For all we know, Brian and Alistair are waiting back at the cabin. What are they going to do then, huh?”</p><p>    A smirk grew on Paul’s face. With a gentle shrug, Paul remarked, “Maybe Brian will send Al with a dog sled team to save us?” </p><p>    “You’re just full of great fucking ideas, aren’t you, Macca?” growled John. He then mimicked Paul, “<em> ‘Maybe Alistair’s coming to the rescue with a dog sled team?’ </em> That’s almost as “great” as ‘ <em> Our guitarist’s got a bit of a fever, so let’s all overreact and send the two songwriters out to go die in a fuckin snowstorm!’” </em></p><p>    With an ounce of force, John pulled Paul’s arm in the direction back home. Drawing a heavy sigh, Paul gave in. The two began to retrace their footsteps, which were almost completely covered up by the ceaseless snow. Fortunately, they had only been walking in one direction, so getting lost wouldn’t be much of an issue.</p><p>    Turning towards their home, a light flickered from the corner of Paul’s eye. His head turned, his eyes squinting at the iridescent light looming in the snowstorm. He tilted his head, hollering over the wind, “What do you suppose that is, John-love?” </p><p>    Although the snow was blinding, John saw the shimmer of light from a distance. A bit cautious, the two of them approached the light, hoping it would be a warm and safe cabin. Drawing closer and closer, Paul could make out the faint outline of a house. A smile swirled on his face as he said, “This must be it!” </p><p>    At last, their hours of chattering teeth and frostbitten skin was over! The two boys picked up their pace. Even without his glasses, John could see the outline of the house in front of them. A dimmed light shined from the rear window of the house, but the rest remained lifeless. Once at close distance, Paul nearly lunged at the front door. Yet John, much more cautious than his partner, held him back. </p><p>    Lowly, John asked, “Wait a second, Paul.” He grasped tightly onto his arm, his weary eyes studying the rather eerie house. </p><p>    “What?” The smile on Paul’s face couldn’t be swept away so easily. He tilted his head, “It’s time to practice the shit outta our German! Y’know... <em> Hilfe! Ich brauche jemanden. </em> <em> Hilfe! Nicht einfach irgend wen--” </em></p><p>    “You think singing our bloody lyrics are gonna help anyone?” </p><p>    “Look,” Paul said, pulling away from John. He smiled, walking towards the house, “I’m knocking on the front door. If you want to make yourself useful, go with me.”</p><p>    And with a bit of a wink, Paul promptly left John’s side and headed towards the door. </p><p>    Not wishing for Paul to go there alone, John followed him, keeping his distance from the house. As Paul came to the porch, knocking on the door with a cute and pleasant demeanor, John had a look around the house. He walked to the house’s side, examining the one lit up window. He squinted his eyes. </p><p>    As he stared, a shadow scurried from the window. John jolted back, letting out a terrified scream. His heart skipped a beat as he nearly fell off his feet. Yet with trembling legs, he stood his ground, backing away from the shining window.</p><p>    “Paul, I think…”</p><p>    A sharp cry interrupted John’s words. <em> It was Paul’s voice. </em>In that instant, adrenaline flushed throughout John’s body. With a sharp turn, John sprinted from the side of the house and back to the porch. His fists clenched in furious anger, ready to defend his partner at all cost.</p><p>    It was there that John saw Paul, stepping back from the door, trembling. John peered closer. A figure loomed in the doorway. As John squinted his eyes, he noticed the figure at the doorstep had something in their hand. </p><p>John was almost certain it was a gun. </p><p>    “<em>Hör auf, Hör auf! </em>(Stop it, stop it!)” shouted John, rushing to Paul’s aid. Paul stumbled back, brushing up to John as John approached the doorway. John quickly grabbed hold of Paul’s waist, pulling him away from the looming shadow in the doorway. John frantically looked down at Paul, checking to see if he had been hurt. Yet finding no trace of blood or a bruise, John pulled Paul to his side, tucking him away. </p><p>    “<em>Wir sind nicht hier, um Ärger zu machen. </em>(We aren’t here to cause trouble)” assured John, breathless in anxiety. He squinted at the figure, trying to figure out what weapon they were holding. It was a big strange looking, but John assumed it must’ve been some weird, pre-WWII pistol. </p><p>    John’s voice trembled, desperately trying to calm down the veiled assailant, “Bitte verletze uns nicht. Wir sind nur Kinder-- (Please don’t hurt us. We are only kids)”</p><p>    The figure stepped out from the darkness. At last, they were unveiled. Wrapped in a wool blanket was an elderly man, his face twisted and crumpled in fear. In his trembling hand was not a gun, but rather a brown boot. He glared at the two boys, his face still tightened. </p><p>    A voice came from behind the old man, <em> “Walter! Versuchst du Kinder mit meinem Stiefel zu schlagen? </em>(Walter! Are you trying to hit kids with my boot?)” </p><p>    From the darkness came a second figure, an elderly woman. She glared at her husband, thumping his head with her finger. She then turned around to look at the two boys on her porch. In particular, her eyes loomed on John Lennon. She chuckled, “<em> Vielleicht war Kind nicht das richtige Wort. </em>(Maybe kid isn’t the right word)” </p><p>    Pushing her husband out of the way, the elderly woman stepped out on the porch. Her eyes scanned both boys, examining their conditions. Seeing how both boys were shivering, the elderly lady shook her head. She extended her hand out, placing his hand onto John’s shoulder. </p><p>    With a gentle smile, she spoke softly, “<em> Komm rein, komm rein. Draußen ist es zu kalt. </em>(Come in, come in. It’s too cold outside.)” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>    With a soft and gentle sneeze, Ringo woke from his moment of rest. As he peered his blue eyes open, he noticed that he was on his side. Two strong arms were wrapped around his waist, another body spooned him from behind, close and tight. It took Ringo a moment to realize who it was. With a gentle chuckle, Ringo lifted his hand and placed the back of his hand onto George’s forehead. </p><p>    Thankfully, it seemed that the fever was gone. <em> For now, at least.  </em></p><p>    George wrinkled his face, shaking Ringo’s hand off his forehead. A gentle chuckle came from behind Ringo, “Good morning, Richie.” </p><p>    George’s hands squeezed on Ringo’s side, then proceeded to bury his face into the back of his hair. </p><p>    “Morning?” laughed Ringo as he glanced over his shoulder towards the window. The sun had set, but it certainly wasn’t the morning already. Ringo chuckled a bit, commenting, “Y'know, it’s barely nighttime, Georgie.” </p><p>    With a gentle shrug of the shoulders, Ringo tried to get out of bed. But George clenched tightly to him, holding him back down onto the mattress. A bit taken back by George’s stronghold, Ringo nervously laughed, “Uh, George… I need to go make dinner. But I'll be back--” </p><p>    “<em>Stay.” </em></p><p>   A shiver ran down Ringo’s spine at the sound of that. He turned his body over to face George. George’s arms were still tightly wrapped around Ringo, his eyes locked on his baby blues. With a gentle smirk, George whispered hoarsely, “Did I ever tell you that you have the bluest eyes in the world?”</p><p>    A gentle blush rushed over Ringo’s face. A brittle, nervous chuckle escaped Ringo’s lips. He glanced away, that blush still remaining bright on his face. Words trickled from his mouth like timid rain, “What are you on about, George?”</p><p>    A brief pause was held for a moment. Ringo glanced back to find George still looking in his eyes, a gentle blush glowing on his cheeks. George’s lips parted for a moment. And then, just as before, his face tightened up. Quickly, he turned his head, coughing violently to his opposite side. As one of his hands desperately clenched to his chest, his other hand grasped onto Ringo’s waist. George coughed violently for a moment, interrupting what might have been a very intimate moment. </p><p>    Ringo sat up, frantically glancing over to see if George had spit out any blood. But seeing none of it, Ringo sighed in relief. Yet as George coughed and coughed, he came to a realization.</p><p>    “Shit. Shit, Ringo, you’re gonna get this illness because of me!” </p><p>    Ringo sat still for a moment, blinking a few times, before replying with, “Uh… yeah, I guess?”</p><p>    “You guess?” scoffed George, shuffling away from Ringo, “If I have tuberculosis, you could die!” </p><p>    “Well, it didn’t kill me the first time.” When those soft yet sudden words slipped from Ringo’s mouth, he didn’t think much of it. To be fair, after waking up from a nap, Ringo wasn’t in the clearest state of mind.</p><p>    Yet George, glancing back to Ringo, was speechless at what he’d heard Ringo say. George stammered, “You… the first time, Ringo?”</p><p>    Ringo glanced up, still a bit clueless as to what was the matter. Yet as he looked at George, whose expression was horrified, Ringo realized what he had just said. He glanced away, desperately trying to relapse his words. But after a few attempts of desperately trying to cover up what he’d said, Ringo eventually admitted, “Erm, yeah, uh. I was fourteen when I contracted TB.”</p><p>    George’s eyes remained wide, his mouth gaped open. George couldn’t believe it. <em> Why hadn’t Ringo bothered to tell me about this? </em> Waves of genuine shock and anger frustrated George’s mind. He shook his head, a red-hot anger rising from his cheeks. George hated to be angry, George <em> despised </em>being angry. Out of the four of them, George wasn’t the one to raise his voice. Yet, at this very moment, George was baffled beyond any comprehension. How could Ringo have kept this from him? </p><p>    George shook his head, unable to look at Ringo. He hissed, “Why did you tell me this sooner, Ringo?”</p><p>    “I didn’t think it mattered--”</p><p>    “It didn’t matter? Of course it matters, Ringo. Y’nearly died of TB as a kid and you didn’t think of telling me?” </p><p>    Ringo stumbled back a bit, taken back by George’s absolute frustration. <em> Why is George so upset about this? </em>It wasn’t as if they had known each other for that long. Ringo wasn’t sure what relevance his shitty childhood had on their band, so he never bothered to mention it. With a bit of a scoff, Ringo retorted, “Why are you so pissed about this?”</p><p>    “Because I should have known…”</p><p>    Ringo interrupted, starting to get a bit annoyed, “Why should you have known?”</p><p>    “Because I’m your mate, Ringo.” George glanced back to him, a strange and worried look sprawled on his face. He tilted his head, “Aren’t I?” </p><p>    Ringo stuttered for a bit, frantically trying to assure George, “Of course you are, of course, of course.” </p><p>    "Then why didn't you tell me about this?"</p><p>    A sudden rush of guilt flooded over Ringo. <em> Have I been a shitty friend? </em>Ringo began to worry about everything and anything he had kept from George. Even the smallest parts of his childhood, like his sleep schedule, his report card, his distant family… Was he supposed to tell his best mate everything? </p><p>    Having spent most of his childhood bed-ridden or in and out of hospitals, Ringo never had the perfect idea of an ideal friendship. Ringo’s childhood friends were far and few between. Ringo was normally the one that made people laugh, sharing jokes or pulling antics to make people happy. He wasn't one to share those deep, painful memories. So, when Ringo had met John, Paul, and George, he never bothered in sharing that sort of stuff. But very quickly, George became the closest friend he ever had. Truth be told, Ringo was admittedly clueless on how a functioning, adult friendship worked. It was honestly all trial and error for him.</p><p>    “Shit, George, I’m sorry,” stammered Ringo, apologizing profusely, “If I was supposed to share that bit earlier in our friendship or something, I should’ve. I just… didn’t know, I’m sorry.”</p><p>    When George looked back at Ringo, he could tell that Ringo was deeply troubled by this. George sighed, but still argued his side, “I care about you, Ringo, that’s all. It would’ve been nice to know that about you, though.” </p><p>    “Well…” Ringo glanced back up, giving a soft and gentle smile, “Maybe when this is all over, you and I can get a cuppa and talk this over? I’m sure there’s bits of your past that I’d love to hear about.”</p><p>    George gave a weak smile, nodding his head, “Yeah. I’d like that very much.”</p><p>    Even though it seemed as though things had mellowed out, there was still an uncomfortable look on George’s face. He glanced back up at Ringo. Inch by inch, George backed away from him, pulling himself to the very corner of the room. </p><p>    With a cool and toneless expression, George stated, “But you need to leave, Ringo.”</p><p>    “I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>    George sighed, tucking his arms to his chest. He shook his head and said, “If you’ve had TB before, I don’t want you to face it again. I’m sure that was hell to go through. And the last thing I wanna do is make y'sick.”</p><p>    “But, George. I don’t care--”</p><p>    “<em>I do,” </em>responded George, sharply. He pointed to the door and without a single tone of kindness, George said promptly, “Go.” </p><p>    A bit taken back by George’s sharpness, Ringo quickly rose out of the bed. As he glanced back to George, it was vivid to see that George truly didn’t want him to leave. George felt miserable, in every sense of the word. The only single thing that made him feel better was having Ringo by his side. But wanting to keep his mate safe, George knew he had to shoo him off. Ringo was too much of a softie to leave on his own accord. </p><p>    And so, with a final glance, Ringo opened the door, stepped out, and closed the door behind him. </p><p>    With the door sealed tight, George went back to his bed, finding the spot that Ringo once laid in. It was still warm. He curled up in that spot, his hands clutching onto his chest. His face tightened as he entered yet another coughing spell. He clenched his eyes, tears beginning to roll down his cheek, as George begged God to let it be over. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Be sure to leave a comment about how you liked this chapter/the story so far. Your input matters to me!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>